Page 29 of The Gambler's Prize
“So how’s it really going with him?” she demands.
“Fine. You heard. He’s getting the hang of digging now.”
“I’m not talking about digging.” She gives me an exasperated look.
“What then?” I say.
“Girls, could you go out and lock up the hens for the night?” she says to the little kids.
They grumble, wanting to eavesdrop, but they make their way to the door. Once they’re gone, Breta turns on me in earnest.
“So you’restilldetermined to hold him to this bet?” she says.
“Why shouldn’t I? He lost fair and square.”
She purses her lips. “Poor boy was probably dead drunk.”
“He’s a man, not a boy.”
Breta thinks everyone who’s more than ten years younger than her is a child. Except for me. I never get this warm and fuzzy protective treatment. But I don’t care what she thinks. Florian is old enough to take responsibility for losing the bet. He was old enough to take responsibility when he ruined my life, too.
“Maybe you technically have the right,” Breta says. “Even so. Some people would let him off the hook.”
“Well, I’m not one of those people. He doesn’t have it that bad, Breta. I’m working just as hard myself. Harder.”
“You’re built for it.” She looks me up and down, scowling. “He’s a city boy. He belongs in the thick of things. I’m sure he’s lonely all the way out here in the desert.”
“He may have mentioned it once or twice.”
“You even have him calling you Boss,” she says angrily.
“So? I am his boss.”
She shakes her head. “You’re as bad as an aristocrat.”
“Florian is an aristocrat, and you seem to lovehim,” I point out. I sound sourer than the lemon juice we sprinkled over the dessert pancakes.
“Florian is different,” she says. “He’s sweet. You heard what he said. If he took time to learn cooking from his staff, he’s nothing like the rest of them.”
True. He’s worse.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Breta,” I say.
“Well, I do. What you’re doing is wrong. You’re going to wear that poor boy out. It’s like cutting a flower and putting it in a vase.”
A flower? In what way is he like aflower?
“Stars, spare me the poetics,” I mumble.
What on earth has gotten into her? I didn’t know she could be so soppy. I stand up impatiently and cross to the window, looking out. No sign of Florian and the girl in the darkening empty landscape. Where are they?
“It’s two years,” I say. “Not thirty. It’s not as though he’s in prison. If he didn’t want to work for me, he shouldn’t have gambled. Someone has to teach him responsibility.”
Breta joins me at the window. She doesn’t seem to have an ounce of care that her daughter is out there somewhere, fraternizing with a known philanderer.
“Why is it your job to teach him?” she says.
I feel my face heat. “It… it isn’t myjob. It just happened that I needed some cheap labor, and this was too good an opportunity to miss.” I smirk. “The dumbest aristocrat I ever met.”
